Last night at bedtime Little Man said something prodigiously witty. This kid has “obscene gobs of greatness*,” I thought. Maybe that is something all mothers feel about their children, but I don’t think so. Little Man is a fantastically bright and creative child with a poet’s heart. Undisciplined “creative types” are frequently hungry. I fretted over how ill-equipped I am to help him acquire the skills he will need. It had been an arduous, tooth-pulling homework session earlier the evening.
“Mom, I don’t like the look on your face,” Little Man said. “You look worried.”
“I am worried,” I said.
“You always look worried.”
“Worried is the way mothers are supposed to look,” I replied.
“No it isn’t,” he said. “Mothers are supposed to look happy.”
“Single mothers worry more,” I said patiently.
“I worry that you always look worried,” he said, a look of genuine concern gracing his scarred brow.
“You don’t need to worry,” I said kindly. “I worry enough for all of us.”
“I love you,” I said quietly.
“I love you, too,” he sighed.
Some days, worry is the price of admission to this circus. It is worth every penny. I kissed his forehead and rose to leave.
“You are going to blog about this aren’t you?” he asked.
“Do you think I should?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”